Corn Spread Quotes

Fox was here first, and his brother was the wolf. Fox said, people will live forever. If they die they will not die for long. Wolf said, no, people will die, people must die, all things that live must die, or they will spread and cover the world, and eat all the salmon and the caribou and the buffalo, eat all the squash and all the corn. Now one day Wolf died, and he said to the fox, quick, bring me back to life. And Fox said, No, the dead must stay dead. You convinced me. And he wept as he said this. But he said it, and it was final. Now Wolf rules the world of the dead and Fox lives always under the sun and the moon, and he still mourns his brother.

I think of all that is happening elsewhere, as I lie here. Nearby, I can hear the sounds of a road crew. Somewhere else, monkeys chatter in trees. A male seahorse becomes pregnant. A diamond forms, a bee dances out directions, a windshield shatters. Somewhere a mother spreads peanut butter for her son's lunch, a lover sighs, a knitter binds off the edge of a sleeve. Clouds gather to make rain, corn ripens on the stalk, a cancer cell divides, a little league team scores. Somewhere blossoms open, a man pushes a knife in deeper, a painter darkens her blue. A cashier pours new dimes into an outstretched hand, rainbows form and fade, plates in the earth shift and settle. A woman opens a velvet box, male spiders pluck gently on the females' webs, falcons fall from the sky. Abstracts are real and time is a lie, it cannot be measured when one moment can expand to hold everything. You can want to live and end up choosing death; and you can want to die and end up living. What keeps us here, really? A thread that breaks in a breeze. And yet a thread that cannot be broken

Thanks to the centrifugal pump, places like Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas had thrown on the garments of fertility for a century, pretending to greenery and growth as they mined glacial water from ten-thousand-year-old aquifers. They'd played dress-up-in-green and pretended it could last forever. They'd pumped up the Ice Age and spread it across the land, and for a while they'd turned their dry lands lush. Cotton, wheat, corn, soybeans -- vast green acreages, all because someone could get a pump going. Those places had dreamed of being different from what they were. They'd had aspirations. And then the water ran out, and they fell back, realizing too late that their prosperity was borrowed, and there would be no more coming.

Judging by the gossip Ellie had overheard in the mall earlier that week, evil scarecrows were becoming a pest. Probably spreading with fields of monoculture corn and soy crops. The formerly diverse scare stories of the prairie were being replaced by repetitive encounters with straw-filled bodies and dead, button eyes.

Corn, beans, and squash were once all my people needed. They were so essential to our everyday lives that we referred to them as our sisters. We would preserve each plant's seeds and pass them on to our children, knowing that with this gift, they would be able to provide the same nutritious food for their families that we provided for them. This was an act of absolute, undiminished intergenerational love. And if intergenerational trauma can alter DNA, why can't intergenerational love?

A permanent dull ache spread from my belly to my chest. I thought I could feel pinpricks of loneliness in the pads of my fingers, taste it in the back of my mouth. Clara Miller must have been lonely too, longing to be touched. One day as she sat before her metal tub filled to the rim with sweet corn, she reached behind her head and unpinned her silver hair. It tumbled down her back like creamy lace cloak. She hiked her skirts to her knees and I could see she had removed her stockings. Her legs were heavy and milk white, solid as columns. She hiked her skirts higher, until they bunched in her lap. When I kissed the back of her neck she quivered, like the dying peasant I’d shot and killed a week before. Her silver hair smelled like smoke. Clara and I tangled together like the bale of wire resting beside the unrepaired chicken coop. We were shameless, falling to the ground, wading into the creek, making our way to her bed.

Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, And tuned my heart to elegies of woe. I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn By driving winds the spreading flames are borne! ... No more my soul a charm in music finds; Music has charms alone for peaceful minds. Soft scenes of solitude no more can please; Love enters there, and I ‘m my own disease.

We are in a depression. I don't just mean economically. We are blue. It is okay to feel how you feel but don't stay there. Think about the helpers. For example a friend got me a mask. Another friend got me cleaning supplies. She just may have saved my life! I have a fan who is making masks to help people. She elsewhere in the universe. So it's everyone. We are stronger together! The whole world is feeling the same. So spread the love out there and accept that love in! This too shall pass!

Ginny Cupper took me in her car out to the spread fields of Indiana. Parking near the edge of woods and walking out into the sunny rows of corn, waving seeds to a yellow horizon. She wore a white blouse and a gray patch of sweat under her arms and the shadow of her nipples was gray. We were rich. So rich we could never die. Ginny laughed and laughed, white saliva on her teeth lighting up the deep red of her mouth, fed the finest food in the world. Ginny was afraid of nothing. She was young and old. Her brown arms and legs swinging in wild optimism, beautiful in all their parts. She danced on the long hood of her crimson Cadillac, and watching her, I thought that God must be female. She leaped into my arms and knocked me to the ground and screamed into my mouth.

We are all susceptible to the pull of viral ideas. Like mass hysteria. Or a tune that gets into your head that you keep on humming all day until you spread it to someone else. Jokes. Urban legends. Crackpot religions. Marxism. No matter how smart we get, there is always this deep irrational part that makes us potential hosts for self-replicating information. But being physically infected with a virulent strain of the Asherah virus makes you a whole lot more susceptible. The only thing that keeps these things from taking over the world is the Babel factor - the walls of mutual incomprehension that compartmentalize the human race and stop the spread of viruses. Babel led to an explosion in the number of languages. That was part of Enki's plan. Monocultures, like a field of corn, are susceptible to infections, but genetically diverse cultures, like a prairie, are extremely robust.

The Irish People are expecting famine day by day... and they ascribe it unanimously, not so much to the rule of heaven as to the greedy and cruel policy of England. Be that right or wrong, that is their feeling. They believe that the season as they roll are but ministers of England's rapacity; that their starving children cannot sit down to their scanty meal but they see the harpy claw of England in their dish. They behold their own wretched food melting in rottenness off the face of the earth, and they see heavy-laden ships, freighted with the yellow corn their own hands have sown and reaped, spreading all sail for England; they see it and with every grain of that corn goes a heavy curse. Again the people believe—no matter whether truly or falsely— that if they should escape the hunger and the fever their lives are not safe from judges and juries. They do not look upon the law of the land as a terror to evil-doers, and a praise to those who do well; they scowl on it as an engine of foreign rule, ill-omened harbinger of doom.

CHOCOLATE CHIP CRUNCH COOKIES Preheat oven to 375° F., rack in the middle position. 1 cup butter (2 sticks, melted) 1 cup white sugar 1 cup brown sugar 2 teaspoons baking soda 1 teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons vanilla 2 beaten eggs (you can beat them up with a fork) 2½ cups flour (not sifted) 2 cups crushed corn flakes (just crush them with your hands) 1 to 2 cups chocolate chips Melt butter, add the sugars and stir. Add soda, salt, vanilla, and beaten eggs. Mix well. Then add flour and stir it in. Add crushed corn flakes and chocolate chips and mix it all thoroughly.   Form dough into walnut-sized balls with your fingers and place on a greased cookie sheet, 12 to a standard sheet. Press them down slightly with a floured or greased spatula. Bake at 375 degrees for 8 to 10 minutes. Cool on cookie sheet for 2 minutes, then remove to a wire rack until they’re completely cool. (The rack is important—it makes them crisp.)   Yield: 6 to 8 dozen, depending on cookie size.   (These cookies have been Andrea’s favorites since high school.)   Hannah’s Note: If these cookies spread out too much in the oven, reduce temp. to 350° F. and do not flatten before baking.

I’m sorry,” said the kitty. “I’ve wrecked your broomstick ride.” “No matter,” said Witch Mildred. “We’re here. Let’s go inside!” The clock atop the castle read twenty after eight, but the promised buffet table held only emptied plates! “No eye or newt? No sautéed slug? No pickleworm pate? No casserole of cockroach! No spiderweb soufflé! Those greedy gobbling goblins left zilch for us to eat.” Said the starving skeleton, “Why don’t we trick-or-treat?” They passed a lighted cottage, from which rose song and laughter. The mummy boldly rang the bell, All others traipsing after. The children squealed and giggled as they greeted their new guests, for of all the trick-or-treaters, these costumes were the best! The hostess asked the callers to join them at their party. “Check out this spread!” the mummy said. The hostess said, “Eat hearty.” “Taffy apples! Candy corn! Purple punch, ice-cold! My tongue’s not touched such tastiness since I was six years old!” In the corner of the kitchen Witch Mildred found a mop. “I think this will do nicely while my broom is in the shop.” “May I, please?” asked Mildred, and seated her new friends. With a loud “Thank you!” away they flew, in loopy swoops and bends. That night Witch Mildred dreamed of cakes and lemonade, but far more sweet than party treats were the friendships she had made!

STRAWBERRY SHORTBREAD BAR COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   Hannah’s 1st Note: These are really easy and fast to make. Almost everyone loves them, including Baby Bethie, and they’re not even chocolate! 3 cups all purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ¾ cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar (don’t sift un- less it’s got big lumps) 1 and ½ cups salted butter, softened (3 sticks, 12 ounces, ¾ pound) 1 can (21 ounces) strawberry pie filling (I used Comstock)*** *** - If you can’t find strawberry pie filling, you can use another berry filling, like raspberry, or blueberry. You can also use pie fillings of larger fruits like peach, apple, or whatever. If you do that, cut the fruit pieces into smaller pieces so that each bar cookie will have some. I just put my apple or peach pie filling in the food processor with the steel blade and zoop it up just short of being pureed. I’m not sure about using lemon pie filling. I haven’t tried that yet. FIRST STEP: Mix the flour and the powdered sugar together in a medium-sized bowl. Cut in the softened butter with a two knives or a pastry cutter until the resulting mixture resembles bread crumbs or coarse corn meal. (You can also do this in a food processor using cold butter cut into chunks that you layer between the powdered sugar and flour mixture and process with the steel blade, using an on-and-off pulsing motion.) Spread HALF of this mixture (approximately 3 cups will be fine) into a greased (or sprayed with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray) 9-inch by 13-inch pan. (That’s a standard size rectangular cake pan.) Bake at 350 degrees F. for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the edges are just beginning to turn golden brown. Remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner on the stove, but DON’T TURN OFF THE OVEN! Let the crust cool for 5 minutes. SECOND STEP: Spread the pie filling over the top of the crust you just baked. Sprinkle the crust with the other half of the crust mixture you saved. Try to do this as evenly as possible. Don’t worry about little gaps in the topping. It will spread out and fill in a bit as it bakes. Gently press the top crust down with the flat blade of a metal spatula. Bake the cookie bars at 350 degrees F. for another 30 to 35 minutes, or until the top is lightly golden. Turn off the oven and remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner to cool completely. When the bars are completely cool, cover the pan with foil and refrigerate them until you’re ready to cut them. (Chilling them makes them easier to cut.) When you’re ready to serve them, cut the Strawberry Shortbread Bar Cookies into brownie-sized pieces, arrange them on a pretty platter, and if you like, sprinkle the top with extra powdered sugar.

Babel led to an explosion in the number of languages. That was part of Enki's plan. Monocultures, like a field of corn, are susceptible to infections, but genetically diverse cultures, like a prairie, are extremely robust. After a few thousand years, one new language developed - Hebrew - that possessed exceptional flexibility and power. The deuteronomists, a group of radical monotheists in the sixth and seventh centuries B.C., were the first to take advantage of it. They lived in a time of extreme nationalism and xenophobia, which made it easier for them to reject foreign ideas like Asherah worship. They formalized their old stories into the Torah and implanted within it a law that insured its propagation throughout history - a law that said, in effect, 'make an exact copy of me and read it every day.' And they encouraged a sort of informational hygiene, a belief in copying things strictly and taking great care with information, which as they understood, is potentially dangerous. They made data a controlled substance... [and] gone beyond that. There is evidence of carefully planned biological warfare against the army of Sennacherib when he tried to conquer Jerusalem. So the deuteronomists may have had an en of their very own. Or maybe they just understood viruses well enough that they knew how to take advantage of naturally occurring strains. The skills cultivated by these people were passed down in secret from one generation to the next and manifested themselves two thousand years later, in Europe, among the Kabbalistic sorcerers, ba'al shems, masters of the divine name. In any case, this was the birth of rational religion. All of the subsequent monotheistic religions - known by Muslims, appropriately, as religions of the Book - incorporated those ideas to some extent. For example, the Koran states over and over again that it is a transcript, an exact copy, of a book in Heaven. Naturally, anyone who believes that will not dare to alter the text in any way! Ideas such as these were so effective in preventing the spread of Asherah that, eventually, every square inch of the territory where the viral cult had once thrived was under the sway of Islam, Christianity, or Judaism. But because of its latency - coiled about the brainstem of those it infects, passed from one generation to the next - it always finds ways to resurface. In the case of Judaism, it came in the form of the Pharisees, who imposed a rigid legalistic theocracy on the Hebrews. With its rigid adherence to laws stored in a temple, administered by priestly types vested with civil authority, it resembled the old Sumerian system, and was just as stifling. The ministry of Jesus Christ was an effort to break Judaism out of this condition... an echo of what Enki did. Christ's gospel is a new namshub, an attempt to take religion out of the temple, out of the hands of the priesthood, and bring the Kingdom of God to everyone. That is the message explicitly spelled out by his sermons, and it is the message symbolically embodied in the empty tomb. After the crucifixion, the apostles went to his tomb hoping to find his body and instead found nothing. The message was clear enough; We are not to idolize Jesus, because his ideas stand alone, his church is no longer centralized in one person but dispersed among all the people.

GOODIE FUDGE 1 cup golden raisins (or any other dried fruit that you prefer, cut in raisin-sized pieces)*** 2 cups miniature marshmallows (I used Kraft Jet-Puffed) 1 cup chopped salted pecans (measure after chopping) ¾ cup powdered (confectioners) sugar (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ½ cup salted butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) ½ cup white corn syrup (I used Karo) 12-ounce package semi-sweet chocolate chips (2 cups) 2 teaspoons vanilla extract ***—I’ve used dried cherries, chopped dried apricots, and dried peaches in this fudge. They were all delicious and I think I’ll try dried blueberries next. Lisa makes it with chopped dried pineapple for Herb because he loves pineapple. Prepare your pan. Line a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan with heavy-duty aluminum foil. Make sure you tuck the foil into the corners and leave a flap all the way around the sides. (The reason you do this is for easy removal once the fudge has set.) Spray the foil with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Sprinkle the raisins (or the other cut-up dried fruit you’ve used) over the bottom of the foil-lined cake pan. Sprinkle the miniature marshmallows over the fruit. Sprinkle the chopped pecans over that. Set the pan near the stovetop and get ready to make your fudge. Measure out the powdered sugar and place it in a bowl near the stove. You need it handy because you’re going to add it all at once. Melt the butter together with the corn syrup in a medium-sized saucepan over low heat. Add the chocolate chips and stir constantly until they’re melted and smooth. Remove the saucepan from the heat and add the vanilla. Be careful because it may sputter. Stir in the powdered sugar all at once and continue stirring until the mixture in the pan is smooth. Working quickly, spoon (or just pour if you can) the fudge you’ve made out of the saucepan and into the cake pan. Spread the fudge out as evenly as you can and stick it into the refrigerator to cool. Once the fudge has hardened, pull the foil with the fudge from your still-clean cake pan. Pull the foil down the sides and cut your Goodie Fudge into bite-sized pieces. Store in a cool place. Yield: 48 or more bite-sized pieces, depending on how large your bite is.

Wolf said, no, people will die, people must die, all things that live must die, or they will spread and cover the world, and eat all the salmon and the caribou and the buffalo, eat all the squash and all the corn. Now one day Wolf died, and he said to the fox, quick, bring me back to life. And Fox said, No, the dead must stay dead. You convinced me. And he wept as he said this. But he said it, and it was final. Now Wolf rules the world of the dead and Fox lives always under the sun and the moon, and he still mourns his brother.

One Sunday a girl from our study group, Jenny, invited us all to her mom's house in Hyde Park for a true Sunday Soul Food Dinner. Jenny's mom, Billie, a tiny woman with skin the color of café au lait, and silvery hair in a perfect chignon, laid out a soul food spread that brought a tear to the eye. Barbecue ribs, macaroni and cheese, collard greens with ham hocks, bread dressing, green beans, biscuits, candied sweet potatoes, creamed corn, and in the center of the table, a huge pile of fried chicken. I had never tasted anything like that fried chicken. The perfect balance of crisp batter to tender juicy meat. Everything that day was delicious, but the fried chicken was transcendent.

It was harvest festival. The altar steps were spread with an array of offerings. Sheaves of corn, marrows of yellow and green, new potatoes in baskets, and several bushels of beans filled the church air with the fertile scent of autumn.

As if this wasn’t enough, word spread of a new peril. Enemy troops masquerading as refugees were said to be infiltrating the lines. From now on, the orders ran, all women were to be challenged by rifle. What next? wondered Lance Bombardier Gentry; Germans in drag! Fear of Fifth Columnists spread like an epidemic. Everyone had his favorite story of German paratroopers dressed as priests and nuns. The men of one Royal Signals maintenance unit told how two “monks” visited their quarters just before a heavy bombing attack. Others warned of enemy agents, disguised as Military Police, deliberately misdirecting convoys. There were countless tales of talented “farmers” who cut signs in corn and wheat fields pointing to choice targets. Usually the device was an arrow; sometimes a heart; and in one instance the III Corps fig leaf emblem. The

I look at the spread on the counter. I took Jacob's advice and went all out on the classic Southern good luck New Year's foods. In addition to my medium-rare porterhouse, there is hoppin' John over buttered Carolina gold rice, slow-cooked collard greens, corn pudding. The black-eyed peas are good luck in the Southern tradition but also in the Jewish, albeit not usually cooked with bacon the way these are. The greens are supposed to represent money, the corn represents gold. We're closing on the house this week, and I'll take whatever good luck I can find to start the New Year, hoping for a career resurrection and some personal clarity. There is a pan of three-layer slutty brownies sitting on the counter, chocolate chip cookie on the bottom, a layer of Oreos in the middle, brownie batter on top with swirls of cream cheese.

When you visualized the future and conjured up a world where urban life had spread everywhere and man had achieved his long-desired symbiosis with the machine, you never took account of the simplest elements, beer, for example, so golden and flavorsome and robust, made from corn in the field and hops in the meadow, or bread or beetroot with its sweet but dark, earthy taste, all this we had always eaten and drunk at tables made of wood, inside windows through which beams of sunlight fell.

It is the best joke there is, that we are here, and fools—that we are sown into time like so much corn, that we are souls sprinkled at random like salt into time and dissolved here, spread into matter, connected by cells right down to our feet, and those feet likely to fell us over a tree root or jam us on a stone. The joke part is that we forget it. Give the mind two seconds alone and it thinks it’s Pythagoras. We wake up a hundred times a day and laugh.

dissipated. The sun flared down on the growing corn day after day until a line of brown spread along the edge of each green

In springtime when I lived at the White House, we used to plant what’s called a “three sisters” vegetable patch in our garden on the South Lawn, mixing a crop of corn, beans, and squash together in one place. This is a traditional Native American method for growing food in a resourceful way, one that’s been used for many hundreds of years and is based on the idea that each type of plant has something vital to offer the others: The corn grows tall and creates a natural pole for the bean plants to climb. The beans provide nitrogen, a nutrient that helps the other plants grow more efficiently, and the squash stays low to the ground, its large, spreading leaves helping to block weeds and keep the soil moist. The plants grow at different rates; the vegetables harvest at different times. But the mix provides a system of mutual protection and benefit—the tall and the small continually working together. It’s not just the corn, and not just the beans, but rather the corn and the beans and the squash combined that yield a healthy crop. The balance comes from the combination. I’ve started to think about both my life and our wider human community in these terms. We are here to share benefits and protection. Our balance rests upon this ideal, the richness of these combinations. If I begin to feel out of sync, if I’m feeling unsupported or overwhelmed, I try to take stock of what my garden holds, what I’ve planted and what I still need to mix in: What’s feeding my soil? What’s helping to block the weeds? Am I cultivating both the small and the tall?

Brownie Bars Brownie Batter: 1 cup butter, softened 2 cups sugar  2 tsp. vanilla  4 eggs  ¾ cup cocoa  1 cup flour  ½ tsp. baking powder  ¼ tsp. salt  1 cup nuts (optional)  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 9 x 13 x 2-inch baking pan or two 8- or 9-inch square pans.  Place butter in large microwave-safe bowl. Microwave on 50% power for 90 seconds-2 minutes or until melted.  Use hand mixer and beat in sugar and vanilla.  Add eggs. Add remaining dry ingredients and incorporate until well mixed.  Stir in nuts, if desired.  Pour batter into prepared pan or pans. Bake 30-35 minutes for 13 x 9 pan or 20-22 minutes for 8- or 9-inch pans or until brownies begin to pull away from the sides of pan. Cool completely in pan on wire rack. Prepare and frost.  Frost the Brownie: 6 Tbsp. butter, softened  6 Tbsp. cocoa  2 Tbsp. light corn syrup or honey  1 tsp. vanilla  2 cups confectioners’ sugar  2-5 Tbsp. whole milk  Beat butter, cocoa, corn syrup and vanilla in a small bowl until blended.  Add powdered sugar and milk, beat to spreading consistency. Frost brownies and top with 1 cup of milk chocolate chips, if desired.  ENJOY!

Good Fats These traditional fats can handle the heat involved in processing or cooking. Olive oil Peanut oil Butter (Yes, butter!) Macadamia nut oil Coconut oil Animal fats (lard, tallow) Palm oil Any artisanally produced unrefined oil Bad Fats These industrial-era fats cannot handle the heat involved in processing or cooking. Canola oil Soy oil Sunflower oil Cottonseed oil Corn oil Grapeseed oil Safflower oil Non-butter spreads (including margarine) and the so-called trans-free spreads

cup sauerkraut, drained (I use a colander and press my hand down to get rid of the excess liquid) 2 tbsp. butter, softened 4 tbsp. catsup 4 tbsp. mayonnaise Directions: Preheat large skillet or griddle on medium heat. Combine catsup and mayonnaise. Lightly butter one side of 4 bread slices. Set aside. On the other 4 bread slices evenly spread the catsup mixture then layer l slice Swiss cheese, 2 slices corned beef, ¼ cup sauerkraut and second slice of Swiss cheese. Top with the buttered bread slices which have been set aside, buttered sides out. Place assembled sandwiches in skillet or on griddle, buttered sides down. Flip when golden

Another class of fats that warrant concern are polyunsaturated fatty acids, also known as PUFAs. Excessive intake of PUFAs, (found in industrial oils such as canola, corn, safflower, and soybean; margarine and buttery sprays and spreads; and assorted baked, frozen, packaged and processed foods) can also compromise health. These fats also oxidize easily and may contribute to systemic inflammation, as the immune system tries to deal with the oxidation. They may be a major factor in arterial oxidation and inflammation. Your endocrine system is especially sensitive to PUFA consumption, which can lead to symptoms such as a slowed metabolism, low energy levels, and sluggish thyroid function.

….In time, the Europeans brought in pigs and horses, both of which were allowed to run wild and multiply. Pigs in the wild soon became aggressive feral boars with tusks, eating everything in sight. Corn, which the Indians depended upon, was attacked and uprooted by the pigs before maturing, thus leaving the Indians without an important source of nourishment. Although pigs provided a necessary source of protein, they were also known to host worms and parasites, and spread viruses such as influenza. If undercooked, the meat could cause trichinosis infections that, depending upon the severity, could result in death in four to six weeks. The sailors returning to Europe brought with them tobacco and syphilis, both of which could be fatal. Syphilis is the gift that keeps on giving and soon spread throughout Europe and England. Unknown prior to the discovery of America, it became another blight on the European continent. Because of their close connection, many people were convinced that pigs were the carriers of Syphilis. Perhaps they were right…. .

Slow-Cooker Bean & Spinach Enchiladas   Nutritional info: - Calories 576, Fat 11 g, Protein 28 g, Carbohydrates 60 g. Servings: 4   Ingredients: 15 ½ oz. black beans (rinsed) 10 oz. frozen chopped spinach (thawed & squeezed of excess liquid) 1 cup frozen corn 1/2 tsp. ground cumin Kosher salt & black pepper (to taste) 3½ c. salsa 8 (6”) corn tortillas (warmed) 6 c. head romaine lettuce (chopped) 4 radishes (cut into matchsticks) 1/2 c. grape tomatoes (halved) 1/2 cucumber (halved & sliced) 3 tbsp. fresh lime juice 2 tbsp. olive oil Sliced scallions (for serving)   Directions: First, in a medium bowl, squash half the beans. Then, add in the spinach, corn, cumin, the remaining beans, 1/2 teaspoon of salt & 1/4 teaspoon of pepper; mix well to combine. Next, spread the salsa in the bottom of a 4-6 quart slow cooker. Evenly divide, roll up the bean mixture into the tortillas (about 1/2 cup each) & place the rolls seam-side down in the slow cooker, in a single layer. Top it with the remaining salsa. Now, cover & cook on low for about 2½ to 3 hours or until heated through. Before serving in a large bowl; toss the lettuce, radishes, tomatoes, cucumber, lime juice, oil & 1/2 teaspoon each of salt & pepper. Serve it with the enchiladas & sprinkle with the scallions.

Without taking use of ox or man, Or of creature as Mary desired, Without spinning thread of silk or of satin, Without sowing, without harrowing, without reaping, Without rowing, without games, without fishing, Without going to the hunting hill, Without trimming arrows on the Lord's Day, Without cleaning byre, without threshing corn, Without kiln, without mill on the Lord's Day. Whosoever would keep the Lord's Day, Even would it be to him and lasting, From setting of sun on Saturday Till rising of sun on Monday.17 Beltaine remained the central festival in the cycle of the agricultural pastoral year, the season of light, the time of growth. It was then that the sheep and cattle would be driven up to the summer pastures, the “shielings” in Scotland, the “hafods” in Wales. This was a virtual migration since these might be six or eight or even twelve or fourteen miles away, and it often meant crossing land that was rough and rugged or full of swamps, even sometimes having to swim across channels or rivers. The procession included the men carrying spades, ropes, and other things that might be needed to repair their summer huts, while the women carried the bedding, meal, and dairy utensils. As they went, there were songs to be sung on the journey, a dedicatory hymn to the Trinity and to the most familiar of the saints, Michael, Bride, and Columba, respectively the protector, the woman who knew about dairies, the guardian of their cattle—and, of course, to Mary herself, who on this occasion they address as mother of the White Lamb: Valiant Michael of the white steeds, Who subdued the Dragon of blood, For love of God, for pains of Mary's Son, Spread

Reuben Sandwich YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHILE LIVING in New York City, I became a sucker for sandwiches, which for me represent the American spirit and lifestyle: easy, unstructured, and casual. They are convenient, fast, and mess-free and may well be the most versatile of all foods. Sandwiches can be healthful or decadent, light or heavy, with ingredients to please vegetarians and carnivores. Made with pita, regular bread, tortilla wraps, or baguettes, they can reflect different ethnic traditions. I believe it was James Beard who said not many people understand a good sandwich. I like to think that I still do. I first tasted this sandwich in a restaurant near 42nd Street a few weeks after I arrived in New York. With a cold beer and a bit of salad, it makes a perfect meal for either lunch or dinner. You can use commercial Russian or Thousand Island dressing on the sandwich or create your own Russian dressing. I sometimes make the Reuben with pastrami, although corned beef is the traditional choice, and I use rye as well as pumpernickel bread. Be sure to use good Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler or Gruyère). I prefer the sauerkraut available in plastic bags to the canned varieties. RUSSIAN DRESSING ½ cup mayonnaise 3 tablespoons ketchup 1 tablespoon fresh or bottled horseradish 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Good dash Tabasco hot pepper sauce SANDWICHES 8 large slices pumpernickel bread (each about 6 by 4 inches in diameter, ½ inch thick, and weighing about 1 ounce) 6 ounces Swiss cheese (preferably Emmenthaler or Gruyère), cut into enough slices to completely cover the bread (about 1½ ounces per sandwich) 1⅓ cups drained sauerkraut 8 ounces thinly sliced corned beef (not too lean) 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 2 tablespoons corn or peanut oil FOR THE DRESSING: Mix all the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. FOR EACH SANDWICH: Spread 2 pieces of the bread with 1 tablespoon each of the Russian dressing, and arrange enough cheese slices on both pieces of bread to cover them. Measure out about ⅓ cup of the sauerkraut and spread half of it on top of one of the cheese-covered slices. Cover with 2 ounces of the corned beef, then spread the remaining half (⅙ cup) of sauerkraut on top. To finish, top with the other cheese-covered slice of bread. Repeat with the remaining ingredients to make 3 additional sandwiches. At serving time, melt the butter with the oil in a nonstick skillet, and sauté the sandwiches, covered, over medium to low heat for about 8 minutes, 4 minutes per side, until the cheese on the sandwiches has melted and the corned beef is hot. Serve immediately.

Our elders say that ceremony is the way we can remember to remember. In the dance of the giveaway, remember that the earth is a gift that we must pass on, just as it came to us. When we forget, the dances we’ll need will be for mourning. For the passing of polar bears, the silence of cranes, for the death of rivers and the memory of snow. When I close my eyes and wait for my heartbeat to match the drum, I envision people recognizing, for perhaps the first time, the dazzling gifts of the world, seeing them with new eyes, just as they teeter on the cusp of undoing. Maybe just in time. Or maybe too late. Spread on the grass, green over brown, they will honor at last the giveaway from Mother Earth. Blankets of moss, robes of feathers, baskets of corn, and vials of healing herbs. Silver salmon, agate beaches, sand dunes. Thunderheads and snowdrifts, cords of wood and herds of elk. Tulips. Potatoes. Luna moths and snow geese. And berries. More than anything, I want to hear a great song of thanks rise on the wind. I think that song might save us. And then, as the drum begins, we will dance,

While lunch had been cold and sparse, the spread before me was rich with grease, butter, and sugar. I think those are the three real Cherokee Sisters. Corn, beans, and squash would be nothing without them.

who must sense that he’s suddenly become the center of attention. He lifts his smooth feathered head and cracks out a series of coarse kraas! which sound way too loud for this early in the morning, and I’m wondering if the Insubordinates, our fellow rebels who are sleeping in the dozens of other rooms on this floor, think we’re in here running an aluminum garbage can through a corn-thresher. Manthy clamps her hands over her ears, and Cardyn puts his finger to his lips in a pointless effort to tell Render to be quiet. Render barks out another string of raspy kraas! and then spreads his wings and suddenly seems gigantic, like a prehistoric flying dinosaur or something. I don’t need to activate my psychic connection with him to know what’s on his mind: he’s hungry, and he doesn’t like being cooped up. It was comforting for me to know he was in here with us all night but having lived his life in the boundless mountain air, he’s not a big fan of walls or ceilings. I hop up from the end of my cot and go over to the window. I’ve barely got it open when the familiar woosh of feathery purplish-black whizzes by my face, and Render is soaring out over the quiet city with the first pinkish rays of the morning sun lighting him up like a glistening missile. This is our first time in such a big city, and I panic for a second as I watch him disappear into a forest of tall office buildings of reflecting black glass and synth-steel. I let out a long, soft breath when I spot him banking and circling as he happily scouts around the city for something he can scavenge for breakfast. I turn back to Brohn and the others just as the door to our room creaks open on old-style metal hinges to reveal Wisp and Granden, and I’m suddenly shaken out of the illusion that we’re all just a bunch of normal teenagers in a normal situation

Corn on the cob of despair, and in breakfast prayers / I am two breads of toast and toasted seeds / spread too thin.

The decay spreads over the State, and the sweet smell is a great sorrow on the land. Men who can graft the trees and make the seed fertile and big can find no way to let the hungry people eat their produce. Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow. The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit—and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth. There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificate—died of malnutrition—because the food must rot, must be forced to rot. The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

idea that each type of plant has something vital to offer the others: The corn grows tall and creates a natural pole for the bean plants to climb. The beans provide nitrogen, a nutrient that helps the other plants grow more efficiently, and the squash stays low to the ground, its large, spreading leaves helping to block weeds and keep the soil moist. The plants grow at different rates; the vegetables harvest at different times. But the mix provides a system of mutual protection and benefit—the tall and the small continually working together. It’s not just the corn, and not just the beans, but rather the corn and the beans and the squash combined that yield a healthy crop. The balance comes from the combination.

cups masa flour 6 cups chicken broth 1 cup corn oil 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon baking powder 2 large chickens (you can use store-bought rotisserie chickens) 2 ½ (12 ounce) jars green salsa or tomatillo sauce 25 to 30 corn husks 1. Soak the corn husks in warm water until they’re soft. 2. Using a mixer, blend the masa flour, corn oil, salt, baking powder, and the chicken broth to obtain a consistent mixture without lumps. 3. Shred the chicken and marinate in the green salsa or tomatillo sauce. 4. Spread the flour mixture evenly over corn husks, then spread a spoonful of the chicken on top of the flour (masa).

The wicked hath no peace, but when his conscience sleeps, and that sleeps but brokenly, awaking often with sick fits of terror; when he hath most prosperity, he is scared like a flock of birds in a corn-field, at every piece going off.  He eats in fear, and drinks in fear; when afflicted, he expects worse behind, and knows not what this cloud may spread to, and where it may lay him, whether in hell or not, he knows not, and therefore trembles, as one in the dark, not knowing but his next step may be into the pit.

EASY FIRST FINGER FOODS FOR BABIES • steamed (or lightly boiled) whole vegetables, such as green beans, baby corn, and sugar-snap peas • steamed (or lightly boiled) florets of cauliflower and broccoli • steamed, roasted or stir-fried vegetable sticks, such as carrot, potato, egg plant, sweet potato, parsnip, pumpkin, and zucchini • raw sticks of cucumber (tip: keep some of these ready prepared in the fridge for babies who are teething—the coolness is soothing for their gums) • thick slices of avocado (not too ripe or it will be very squishy) • chicken (as a strip of meat or on a leg bone)—warm (i.e., freshly cooked) or cold • thin strips of beef, lamb or pork—warm (i.e., freshly cooked) or cold • fruit, such as pear, apple, banana, peach, nectarine, mango—either whole or as sticks • sticks of firm cheese, such as cheddar or Gloucester •breadsticks • rice cakes or toast “fingers”—on their own or with a homemade spread, such as hummus and tomato, or cottage cheese And, if you want to be a bit more adventurous, try making your own versions of: • meatballs or mini-burgers • lamb or chicken nuggets • fishcakes or fish fingers • falafels • lentil patties • rice balls (made with sushi rice, or basmati rice with dhal) Remember, you don’t need to use recipes specifically designed for babies, provided you’re careful to keep salt and sugar to a minimum.

SNACK AND MEAL TIME Provide a chair that allows the child’s elbows to be at table height and feet to be flat on the floor. A stool or pillow may help. (Kids fidget less when they feel grounded.) Offer a variety of ways to eat food, e.g., eat pudding with a spoon, or scoop it up with fingers; use a spoon or a fork to eat corn kernels, or use both hands to munch corn on the cob; and spoon chicken broth, or lift the bowl to her mouth. Offer a variety of foods with different textures: lumpy, smooth, crunchy, chewy. Keep portions small, especially when introducing new foods. Let the child pour juice or milk into a cup. A tipless cup will help prevent accidents. The child who frequently overreaches or spills juice needs much practice. Encourage the child to handle snack-time or mealtime objects. Opening cracker packages, spreading peanut butter, and eating with utensils are good for proprioception, bilateral coordination, and fine-motor skills.

If goodness was like mint... ..."It'll spread if it ain't hedged," her ma explained, then told her how mint roots roam under the soil and send up shoots inches, feet away, making more roots, and those roots then roam, send up shoots, making new roots. "And up comes more mint. If I don't wall it off, mint will take over the garden. We'll wind up with no corn and cabbages, no beans and tomatoes, no peppers, no goosefoot, no squash, no okra.

But what is legality, if it is legal to torture a goose or a duck by putting it in a cage where it can’t move, shoving a tube down its throat, and force-feeding it to make its liver fatty in order to make foie gras for people to spread on crackers? The Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 applies to crows because some of their populations migrate. But the treaty provides that a species under its auspices may be hunted under regulations preventing detrimental effects on the overall population if there is good cause. Crows are exempted from the act’s protection when they “harm livestock” by eating corn. So American crows, Corvus brachyrhynchos, are considered great for target shooting. There is no bag limit. There used to be a specific crow-hunting season, beginning in September in some states. But in my state of Maine you can now shoot crows in any number at any time, except on Sundays. Migratory woodpeckers, such as the northern flicker, in contrast, are as far as I know not fair game even when they are damaging a home. And I think that is fair and reasonable.

goose or a duck by putting it in a cage where it can’t move, shoving a tube down its throat, and force-feeding it to make its liver fatty in order to make foie gras for people to spread on crackers? The Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 applies to crows because some of their populations migrate. But the treaty provides that a species under its auspices may be hunted under regulations preventing detrimental effects on the overall population if there is good cause. Crows are exempted from the act’s protection when they “harm livestock” by eating corn. So American crows, Corvus brachyrhynchos, are considered great for target shooting. There is no bag limit. There used to be a specific crow-hunting season, beginning in September in some states. But in my state of Maine you can now shoot crows in any number at any time, except on Sundays. Migratory woodpeckers, such as the northern flicker, in contrast, are as far as I know not fair game even when they are damaging a home. And I think that is fair and reasonable.

Thanks to the centrifugal pump, places like Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas had thrown on the garments of fertility for a century, pretending to greenery and growth as they mined glacial water from ten-thousand-year-old aquifers. They’d played dress-up-in-green and pretended it could last forever. They’d pumped up the Ice Age and spread it across the land, and for a while they’d turned their dry lands lush. Cotton, wheat, corn, soybeans—vast green acreages, all because someone could get a pump going. Those places had dreamed of being different from what they were. They’d had aspirations. And then the water ran out, and they fell back, realizing too late that their prosperity was borrowed, and there would be no more coming.

Gabriel Solomon, our sandy-lashed, red-haired, soon-to-be-surgeon waiter, recited the night's menu: salad, broiled salmon, boiled red potatoes, sliced tomatoes and corn on the cob, all served family style. A vast slab of butter lay on a white plate next to baskets of bread- white Wonder bread and buttermilk biscuits, neither of which had ever touched our lips. There was a bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup in the center of the table, a novelty for Jews who didn't mix dairy foods with meat. "The milk is from the farm's cows," Gabe explained. "It's pasteurized but it doesn't taste like city milk. If you'd like city milk, it will be delivered to you. But try the farm milk. Some guests love it. The children seem to enjoy it with syrup." Gabe paused. "I forgot to ask you, do you want your salad dressed or undressed?" Jack immediately replied, "Undressed of course," and winked. My mother worried about having fish with rolls and butter. "Fish is dairy," my father pronounced, immediately an expert on Jewish dietary laws. "With meat it's no butter and no milk for the children." Lil kept fidgeting in her straight-backed chair. "What kind of food is this?" she asked softly. "What do they call it?" "American," the two men said in unison. Within minutes Gabe brought us a bowl filled with iceberg lettuce, butter lettuce, red oak lettuce. "These are grown right here, in our own garden. We pick the greens daily. I brought you some oil and vinegar on the side, and a gravy boat of sour cream for the tomatoes. Take a look at these tomatoes." Each one was the size of a small melon, blood red, virtually seedless. Our would-be surgeon sliced them, one-two-three. We had not encountered such tomatoes before. "Beauties, aren't they?" asked Gabe. Jack held to certain eccentricities in his summer food. Without fail he sprinkled sugar over tomatoes, sugared his melons no matter how ripe and spread his corn with mustard- mustard!

Shelves were jam-packed with orange and brown packaged treats: chocolate-covered Cheerios, chocolate-covered cornflakes, chocolate-covered raisins and pretzels and espresso beans. Chocolate malt balls, chocolate almonds, and giant 2.2-pound "Big Daddy" chocolate blocks. There was caramel corn, peanut brittle, mudslide cookie mixes, and tins of chocolate shavings so you could try replicating Jacques's über-rich hot chocolate at home- anything the choco-obsessed could dream was crammed in the small space. An L-shaped counter had all manner of fresh, handcrafted temptations: a spread of individual bonbons with cheeky names like Wicked Fun (chocolate ganache with ancho and chipotle chilies), Love Bug (key lime ganache enveloped in white chocolate), and Ménage à Trois (a mystery blend of three ingredients). Platters of double chocolate chip cookies and fudge brownies. And there were his buttery croissants and pain au chocolat, which duked it out in popularity with the French bakery across the street, Almondine.

If she ever got fat, she thought, or if she ever said anything fat, she would lock herself in a bathroom and stay there until she died," thinks the young protagonist Molly Fawcett. "Often she thought how comfortably you could live in a bathroom. You could put a piece of beaver board on top of the tub and use it as a bed. In the daytime, you could have a cretonne spread on it so that it would look like a divan. You could use the you-know-what as a chair and the lavatory as a table. You wouldn't have to have anything else but some canned corn and marshmallows. . . .

Retired missionaries taught us Arts & Crafts each July at Bible Camp: how to glue the kidney, navy, and pinto bean into mosaics, and how to tool the stenciled butterfly on copper sheets they'd cut for us. At night, after hymns, they'd cut the lights and show us slides: wide-spread trees, studded with corsage; saved women tucking T-shirts into wrap-around batiks; a thatched church whitewashed in the equator's light. Above the hum of the projector I could hear the insects flick their heads against the wind screens, aiming for the brightness of that Africa. If Jesus knocks on your heart, be ready to say, "Send me, O Lord, send me," a teacher told us confidentially, doling out her baggies of dried corn. I bent my head, concentrating hard on my tweezers as I glued each colored kernel into a rooster for Mother's kitchen wall. But Jesus noticed me and started to knock. Already saved, I looked for signs to show me what else He would require. At rest hour, I closed my eyes and flipped my Bible open, slid my finger, ouija-like, down the page, and there was His command: Go and do ye likewise— Let the earth and all it contains hear— Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire—. Thursday night, at revival service, I held out through Trust and Obey, Standing on the Promises, Nothing But the Blood, but crumpled on Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling, promising God, cross my heart, I'd witness to Rhodesia. Down the makeshift aisle I walked with the other weeping girls and stood before the little bit of congregation left singing in their metal chairs. The bathhouse that night was silent, young Baptists moving from shower to sink with the stricken look of nuns. Inside a stall, I stripped, slipped my clothes outside the curtain, and turned for the faucet— but there, splayed on the shower's wall, was a luna moth, the eye of its wings fixed on me. It shimmered against the cement block: sherbet-green, plumed, a flamboyant verse lodged in a page of drab ink. I waved my hands to scare it out, but, blinkless, it stayed latched on. It let me move so close my breath stroked the fur on its animal back. One by one the showers cranked dry. The bathhouse door slammed a final time. I pulled my clothes back over my sweat, drew the curtain shut, and walked into a dark pricked by the lightening bugs' inscrutable morse.